


to fight when you feel like flying

by elossa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:45:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elossa/pseuds/elossa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The elder Malfoy did not want his only son to fail, to lose his standing as most intelligent in Hogswarts to some Mudblood filth like he did. He did not want his son to be a disappointment, to be unworthy of attention. That meant that there was no such thing as good in this house. There could never be good when there was always better, always best.</p>
<p>Set pre-Hogwarts. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to fight when you feel like flying

**Author's Note:**

> for the tumblr anon who asked me this:  
> 'Okay so harry potter backstory: Id like to know your head canon on the malfoys, specifically lucius and dracos relationship :)'  
> i hope this is a satisfactory answer.

Draco’s lesson had gone to a standstill once a house-elf had summoned him to his father’s quarters. Monsieur let him go immediately as he ran through the more difficult steps with Daphne Greengrass, trying his best not to let his worry for the boy’s fate today. Fear of the unknown made the blond’s pulse quicken, his fingers tremble and his arms swinging carelessly side to side without a hint of control, his breath hitch, but such things remained hidden beneath a blank canvas, levelled eyebrows, and thin lips.

 

Lucius had opened the door for his son, giving him a curt nod. The younger Malfoy returned the gesture. He shut the door, walking (shoulders slacker, head held higher, chin up, make sure you’re actually walking _straight_ this time you nitwit) forwards to the plush, leather seat that was waiting for him. Any reasonable person could see the seat was too tall for him, but he was a Malfoy; he was to encounter every obstacle with ease and with grace.

 

“Good morning, Father,” Draco greeted. He settled himself into the chair, tilting his head up almost excessively to level himself with his father’s eyes. “How are you?”

 

“Good morning,” Lucius replied. Tilting his head downward, he added, “I am good, thank you. How are you?”

 

“I am good also,” Draco said. He mentally sighed with relief at the less strain his neck felt, and was now almost certain that his father was in a good mood.

 

Lucius stood from his sheet, handing Draco a small scrap of parchment. “The last time I had the misfortune of stumbling upon your penmanship, I thought that it was rather… atrocious.”

 

(That was a lie, of course, but the elder Malfoy did not want his _only_ son to fail, to lose his standing as most intelligent in Hogswarts to some Mudblood filth like he did. He did not want his son to be a disappointment, to be unworthy of attention. That meant that there was no such thing as good in this house. There could never be good when there was always better, always best.)

 

“Write your name on the parchment, Draco,” he commanded, “I hope for both of our sakes that your writing is satisfactory this time.”

 

Draco took the quill and dipped it in the black ink, pondering on whether to stall his task, or get on with it as quickly as possible. Without another thought, he decided to go with the latter and began a long stroke downwards, a loop to the right, a straight line, a swish like drawing a circle to join the end of the loop to the first point: the first letter of his name.

 

With care and precision, Draco wrote out the rest of his name. He ensured the loops were all of similar height and width, his strokes weren’t too thick, too thin, or varied too greatly in width, and to make sure it wasn’t too flowery like his mother’s (“Are you a _girl_ , Draco? Have you grown breasts?”) whose handwriting reminded of spring and summer and days of hiding away at the Zabinis where nothing seemed to matter, opting for the straighter, blockier script his father often boasted that reminded him of winter where he was locked in his house because it was too cold to go outside. He settled the quill back in its place when he was finished, lacing his fingers in his lap as he waited for Lucius’s critique.

 

“I see your penmanship has much improved, Draco,” Lucius drawled, nodding in emphasis, “almost half as good as mine was when I first started Hogwarts.” He gave his son a small smile, which disappeared as swiftly as it came, “Very well. How have your dance lessons been going?”

 

“We’re learning the cha-cha now, Father,” Draco replied, thankful that he managed to hide his disdain of such lessons in his voice. He didn’t see how being good at dancing helped him in the academic arena in Hogwarts, but tradition was tradition, as mother said.

 

One needed more than just academics to succeed in the highly competitive world, his father often quoted. This puzzled Draco greatly; what was the point of bothering to succeed when one had several companies to take care of and a lavish lifestyle complete with a suitable bride mapped out for them? He supposed that being intelligent was just another way for his family to prove their superiority, as if owning one of the largest estates in Britain – the world, even – wasn’t enough.

 

“Good. I did tell you the tango was more manageable than whatever you have been led to believe by your mother.” Lucius continued, “I trust that Monsieur has been a satisfactory dance instructor, and Daphne a suitable dance partner to you?”

 

“Yes, Father.”

 

“If I ask Monsieur, will I hear that you have been a compliant student and a considerate dance partner to young Miss Greengrass? That you have not hurt her in any way out of carelessness?”

 

“Yes, Father. No, I have not hurt Daphne, Father.”

 

Lucius gave his son a curt nod, walking towards the door. Draco rose from his seat, following his father’s steps, stopping right in front of him to make eye contact. “Goodbye, Father,” the younger blond said, immune to the glossing-over his father was doing right now.

 

“Goodbye, son,” Lucius replied, shutting the door.

 

Draco heaved a sigh of relief once he was sure his father was no longer listening. That was a definite sign that his father had been in a good mood; the word being used to address him was rare, a needle in a haystack, a diamond in the rough. He had pleased him only by learning to steel himself, to roll his thoughts into the calmer side of his mind palace, being as eloquent and cold as the patriarch himself.

 

With a smirk, Draco returned to his dancing lesson, cursing himself as he promptly forgot how to cha-cha.

**Author's Note:**

> tl:dr; basically lucius is a bit of a tiger father who uses problematic insults but loves his son anyway.
> 
> feel free to comment/leave a kudo whatever. x


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